Cloudfall Bearing

The ship holds at a trembling angle where sea lifts toward sky, its prow cut with pale runes that hum quietly, a sound like glass brushed by wind. A man has climbed forward, boots braced, one arm raised toward a drifting citadel far beyond the storm column. His other hand keeps a curved blade low, nonthreatening, as if greeting rather than challenging what hovers ahead. Torn canvas snaps above him, stitching rhythm into the air. Below, the water gleams clear enough to show reefs and wandering boats paused by awe. Someone has written Where Vojta? directly into the surface, letters dissolving at the edges, already thinning. The feather falling through the space between feels accidental, yet everyone watches it. The man’s mouth opens, shaping the words, "He’ll hear us." The sound carries oddly, bent upward by the clouds. I cannot tell who steers, or if anyone dares. The morning light forgives the damage and the waiting alike, but the sky-city does not answer. Vojta remains unaccounted for, somewhere beyond the mist’s slow descent.